


Epistaxis

by MusicalLuna



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Gen, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt!Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Procedures, Mother Hen Tony Stark, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, POV Steve Rogers, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Tony Stark, Steve Rogers Has Issues, Team Dynamics, Team as Family, The Avengers Are Good Bros, The Avengers are not having Steve's shit, background Clint Barton/Darcy Lewis/Natasha Romanov, medical scare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:55:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21549484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MusicalLuna/pseuds/MusicalLuna
Summary: Steve doesn't worry the first time he gets a bloody nose that won't quit. But when it happens a second, third, fourth...He, and his teammates, start to get concerned.
Relationships: Steve Rogers & Avengers Team
Comments: 28
Kudos: 494





	Epistaxis

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to wynnesome, WingMoon, and windscryer for their betaing!
> 
> Also to windscryer for basically writing the fic in the first place and letting me put the flesh on it. I love this SO MUCH. hurt!steve is just *clenches fist*

“Clint has asked me for advice regarding the celebration of his anniversary with Lady Darcy and Natasha, but I do not know what to recommend. On Asgard, he would be expected to give them each a kitten, but Darcy's apartment does not allow pets. What is appropriate on Midgard?”

Steve swipes the back of his wrist over his forehead to stop the sweat threatening to drip into his eyes. “Which one are they at?” he asks between heavy breaths.

“This is their third year together.” Thor comes at Steve with a right hook he telegraphs just enough Steve manages to duck out of the way.

“In my day, you woulda got something leather. Books, watches, bags, that sorta thing.” Thor drops his guard for a moment as he considers that, and Steve takes shameless advantage, stepping forward and jabbing. Thor is more on it than he looks, though, and he responds by tipping his head out of the way, arm coming up for a right cross that nails Steve right between the eyes.

He staggers backward, tumbling onto his ass as pain spikes from his nose in a fiery sunburst. It still aches from yesterday's bout with the Doombots and the blow doesn’t do it any favors.

Sam calls from the side of the ring where he's been watching, “Shoulda seen that coming.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve grumbles, grimacing as blood drips down his upper lip and into his mouth. “Nice move,” he tells Thor.

Thor grins at him. “You still underestimate me, Steven.”

Steve huffs. “Yeah, I guess I do. Thanks,” he says, gratefully accepting the wad of gauze Sam hands him. He looks up at Thor. “Go again when this stops?”

“Aye,” Thor agrees. In the meantime, he picks up his water bottle from the corner of the ring and takes several long swigs before spraying a burst over his face and neck. He's shirtless, hair pulled up in a messy knot on top of his head, although one of the little braids at his temple is swinging free. If they were fighting dirty, Steve would grab it and probably tear the thing right off his head. But they aren't, so he just watches it swing, amused. “Is this a tradition then?” Thor asks when he's had another drink. “Leather goods for the third anniversary of commitment?”

“Yeah, there's a whole list. Something different for each anniversary. Represents something—I don't know all of them, I didn't have much reason to.”

“Leather's for old fuddy-duddies,” Sam says mildly. “Nowadays, it's glass or crystal.”

“They changed that, too?” Steve complains, and Sam laughs.

“You are bleeding through your dressing,” Thor points out, gesturing.

Steve glances down and realizes he's right—a rivulet of blood is snaking down his wrist toward his elbow from the red-saturated gauze. “Shit,” he says as it drips onto the canvas. “Hand me some more, Sam?”

Sam ducks down and grabs another wad, holding it out where Steve can get at it. He sticks it over the existing dressing and shoots a wry look at Thor. “You got me good.”

“Maybe you will remember this next time you underestimate me.” Thor squirts Steve with his water bottle, and Steve laughs, throwing up his free hand in a weak attempt at defense.

“All right, let's have a look,” Sam says a few minutes later, and Steve pulls the gauze away. Immediately, he feels a gush of blood pour from his nose down his lip, tasting copper on his tongue.

Sam frowns. “It's _still_ bleeding?” He hands over a fresh stack of gauze squares and takes the bloodied ones in one gloved hand to dispose of. Steve's fingers are smeared in blood, and he can feel it on his face, even down on his neck. He must look a mess. “You ever bled this long before?”

Steve shakes his head. “Normally stops pretty quick.”

Sam doesn't say anything else until he soaks through the new gauze, too. “All right. Let's go.”

“Where are we going?”

“Medical,” Sam says firmly, and Steve groans.

“It's just a bloody nose, Sam—”

“A bloody nose that's been bleeding for almost twenty minutes! That's not normal, even for non-super soldiers. Your ass is going to medical. Don't make me have Thor pick you up.”

“I am happy to carry you if you are too weak to stand,” Thor says cheerfully, striding ominously toward Steve.

“All right, all right, I'm going!” Steve says, eeling his way out of the boxing ring. He grudgingly allows Sam and Thor to escort him down to medical. “You know this really isn't necessary.”

“You are not remotely qualified to make that decision,” Sam replies. “I will pull receipts, don't think I won't.”

He's probably got a laundry list of them just waiting at the top of his mind, so Steve shuts his mouth. He still thinks it's pointless.

“All right, let's see what we have,” Dr. Cho says when he's sat down at the end of one of the examination tables.

Steve pulls the gauze away, and—nothing happens. He wiggles his nose, reaches up to touch it. There's blood crusted all around his nostrils and on his lip, but apparently, it's stopped bleeding. He shoots a significant look at Sam. “Well, my nose _was_ bleeding.”

“For twenty minutes,” Sam interjects.

“I hit him,” Thor adds helpfully.

“Yes, I can see that,” Dr. Cho says dryly. “Let me have a look inside just to be safe.” So she peers up Steve's nose with one of her tools and prods at his nose for a minute or two and then pops the tip off of the instrument into a biohazard bin. “Everything looks normal, if a little swollen, which is to be expected. Try not to punch one another in the face, hm?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Thor says contritely.

Steve doesn't say a word as they leave, but Sam rolls his eyes as they board the elevator. “Do not even. I refuse to feel an ounce of shame for making you seek a professional medical opinion.”

“You're a worrywart,” Steve says.

“Fuck you,” Sam replies, but he fails to stifle a smile when Steve chivvies him into the corner of the elevator with his elbow.

After that, Steve forgets about it.

For about a week, anyway.

He's pounding the heavy bag when he feels something he thinks is sweat dripping down his upper lip, but when he licks it from his lips, it's metallic. He swipes it away with one of his wrapped hands and red smears across the tape.

“What the hell?” he mutters. He hadn't even taken a punch this time. He hasn't had a bloody nose for no reason in a little over five years. The serum took care of all that.

When it hasn't let up ten minutes later, Steve sighs and heads down to medical.

The night doctor is at his desk when Steve disembarks. “Captain, what brings you in?”

Steve gestures to the tissue paper he has pinched to his nose. “Dunno what happened, it just started bleeding.”

The doctor's eyebrows rise. “Oh, really. Well, come have a seat and I'll take a look.” He tugs on gloves as Steve sits. “Anything you can think of that might have caused it?”

Steve shrugs. “Thor punched me in the nose a week ago.”

“No, then.”

Steve smiles wryly.

“All right, let's see it,” the doctor says, gently prying Steve's hand away from his face.

To Steve's exasperation, it's stopped bleeding.

“No pain?”

Steve shakes his head. “No, sir.”

The doctor hums thoughtfully and pulls out some gauze. He saturates it with a clear liquid, and Steve sits patiently as the doctor cleans the blood from his face, prodding here and there as he works. When he's done, he tosses the gauze out and peels off his gloves. “Well, everything looks fine as far as I can tell.”

Steve sighs. “Well, thanks, Doc.”

He claps Steve on the shoulder. “Anytime. I wouldn't worry. I'm sure even super soldiers get dry noses.”

Steve's not so sure, but he nods and starts carrying a handkerchief.

~ * ~

The next time it happens, it's movie night.

They're watching _Wayne's World_ , which might be one of the silliest things Steve's ever seen, and everyone's so rambunctious he can't hear half of what's going on, but he also can't stop smiling. Clint and Tony haven't sat down for half the movie because they keep breaking into vigorous bouts of air guitar. Even Bruce apparently knows most of the dialogue for this movie.

Steve keeps exchanging looks with Thor, who seems equally lost and equally amused.

Garth and Wayne are lying on the hood of a car when Tony looks back at Steve over his shoulder, and the glee drops right off his face. He lunges at the coffee table, grabbing a fistful of napkins and then flings himself on top of Steve. It's only Steve's super-soldier reflexes that stop him from smashing the fistful of napkins into Steve's face.

“Tony!” he exclaims, “What the hell?”

“You're bleeding!” Tony says, wild-eyed. He thrashes his wrist around until Steve lets it go, and then he presses the napkins to Steve's nose—gentler this time, thankfully. “Why are you bleeding?”

Someone pauses the movie, and JARVIS brings up the lights, and Steve sighs, reaching to take the napkins. Tony won't let him have them. Exasperated, Steve tips his head back. “It's nothing, it's just a nosebleed.”

“Since when are you getting spontaneous nosebleeds?” Tony demands.

Steve can feel the stares of the others. “I got them all the time when I was a kid, Tony, it's not a big deal.”

“It's like he thinks we're stupid,” Clint says to Thor.

“Actually, you should lean forward, Steve,” Bruce says. “That's probably counter to the advice you used to get.”

Tony's hands follow as Steve shifts as instructed and lays his elbows across his knees. There are pieces of popcorn on the carpet.

“We should take him to medical, right?” Tony says, insistent.

“I mean...it's really unlikely he's in danger from a nosebleed.”

“I once bled from my nasal passages for nearly a day.”

“Yeah, but you're you. Hasn't Loki stabbed you like ten times?”

“Twenty-three times,” Thor mutters.

“Hello, can we stay on topic? The super-soldier is bleeding for no reason.”

“It's not the first time either.”

Steve restrains a groan. Dammit, Sam.

“It's not?”

“Nah, Thor socked him in the nose last week.”

Steve tracks the time passing in his head while they argue. If the other two nosebleeds are anything to go by, it should be just under twenty minutes. He debates whether or not to tell them about the second nosebleed. He can only imagine the way they'd react to that information.

“Two nosebleeds a week apart really isn't a big deal,” Sam says, and Steve's feelings toward him turn toward the positive.

“Three, actually,” he corrects without thinking.

There's a moment of complete silence, and Steve drops his head lower, half-tempted to make a run for it. Of all the stupid things.

“Okay, he _definitely_ needs to go to medical!” Tony says, voice rising.

“When was this?” Natasha asks, frowning.

“A couple days ago,” Steve says, and he can feel the incredulous glares burning into his face. “What? I went to medical! It stopped bleeding on its own, and they said I looked fine!”

“Three bloody noses, though, Steve. That's more than a little unusual for you,” Bruce says, and Steve can hear the worry in his voice.

He's reached the seventeen-minute mark, so he nudges Tony's hand away and leans back. As expected, when he reaches up to feel for blood, there's nothing to be found. “See?” he says, looking into the tense faces around him. “Stopped.”

“How many nosebleeds have you had since the serum?” Clint asks.

Steve shrugs. “More than a few.”

“Just out of nowhere like that?”

Steve tries to think back to all the times he can remember and has to admit, “No. Almost always after a hit.”

Sam is giving him a profoundly skeptical look. “The doc really said you were fine?”

Steve shrugs again, shifting. “He said there wasn't anything he could see.”

“Wow, I can't even begin to tell you how much I hate this,” Tony says loudly, and Natasha touches his arm. “That's a pattern! A bad pattern!”

“It's just a _nosebleed!_ ” Steve shoots back, voice rising with frustration.

“Your Midgardian bodies are so fragile, perhaps it is wise for you to see a doctor again.”

“Are you _kidding me?_ ”

“Don't start with that, Steve! Don't act like we're being unreasonable!”

“What if it's the serum?” Bruce asks, and even though his voice is quieter than everyone else's, it cuts right through the chatter. “We should, at the very least, make some notes and do a few tests. If the serum is reversing somehow, or destabilizing—”

Steve swallows thickly. The others prod him to his feet and start herding him toward the elevator, stress apparent on their faces, and all of a sudden this feels a lot more serious than Steve's been giving it credit for. If something's wrong with the serum—

He wrestles down the surge of fear that washes through him. Bruce can't be right. It can't possibly work like that. After this long? It doesn't make sense.

Bruce touches his elbow as they all pile into the elevator. “Honestly, Steve, that's not it I don't think. It's absurd. But better safe than sorry, right?”

“That's not usually my MO, no,” Steve replies and Clint, Sam, and Tony all snort.

“Keep a lid on it, Rogers,” Natasha says, patting his back. “You're going to be fine.”

Steve smiles wanly. He would feel better if Bruce weren't insisting they go back to medical. As much as he hates showing weakness in front of the team, he's glad they're here. They have his back and annoying as it may be, it's nice to know they care so much.

When he explains the situation to the doctors, they don't seem especially concerned. Still, with the team there, intensity ratcheted up to eleven, they aren't easygoing and lighthearted either. They're solemn as they take a look up Steve's nose again and then start doing MRIs and x-rays and going through more acronyms than the military. The team stays nearby during all of it, Sam and Bruce looking over the doctors' shoulders. Clint lurks in a corner, pretending he isn't paying attention, but Steve knows he's probably got a better idea of everything that's going on than anyone else. Everywhere they take him, Natasha follows at a reasonable distance, occasionally making faces, while Tony sticks to his side, hands tense but his conversation casual. Thor chats with him and Steve, seemingly relaxed, but his eyes follow the doctors.

It's reassuring and incredibly stressful all at once.

“Well,” Dr. Cho says eventually, “Everything looks perfect, as usual.”

It should be good news, but Steve can't help feeling like something is waiting for him in the wings.

~ * ~

It isn't even four days later when it happens again. Steve is with Tony and Natasha signing autographs for kids during a school visit when a drop of blood plops onto one of the photos.

He's staring at it blankly when the little girl he's signing the picture for says, “Mr. America, you're bleeding!”

Steve sees Natasha's head snap up. “What?”

Scrambling for his utility belt, Steve digs out his handkerchief. He jams it against his nose and glances over to see if Tony overheard.

Of course he did; Tony's abandoned his own stack of photos and small children and is rushing over, his eyes wide.

Steve holds out his free hand. “Iron Man, relax. I'm fine.”

Tony's eyes dart over to the children, and then he leans in, hissing, “If you were anyone else, this might be fine. It's not fine!”

A hand touches his back, and Natasha peers around Steve's arm, her brow furrowed. “You know this is out of the ordinary. We're just concerned.”

Steve tips his head back, annoyance only barely muffling the anxiety. “I know, but I'm _fine.”_

“You don't know that!” Tony snaps. Then he takes a deep breath and turns to the kids. “Hey, everyone. I'm sorry, but we're going to have to cut this short—”

“Tony!” Steve protests, and gets a glare for his effort.

“Is he okay?” one of the teachers asks, and Steve sighs, exasperated.

“He's fine,” Natasha assures them, despite her grip on his wrist. “We'll come back another time.”

“Oh—okay,” the teacher says, and nods. “Of course.”

With both Natasha and Tony holding onto him, Steve knows arguing is pointless. They drag him home and to medical, and yet again, when they get there, the bleeding's stopped, and the doctors can't find anything wrong.

It happens again while they're in the field fighting the Wrecking Crew. Steve tries to blame it on taking a hit, but it's obvious no one's buying it.

After that, it's almost a daily occurrence. He starts bleeding when he's eating breakfast, when he's sitting at the kitchen table doing reports, when he's drawing in the studio.

Every time he looks up, he finds the others watching him, no one more intensely than Tony. He looks more rattled than Steve's ever seen him, and it's unnerving. Steve still hasn't been able to shake the idea that the serum could be destabilizing and what that might mean. It doesn't help that he can see that same thought playing through Tony's head whenever he catches him staring.

“Can you make him stop?” he asks Pepper, whose gaze has only flickered down to his nose once so far during this conversation, which is better than anyone else has managed.

Pepper calls Tony while still looking Steve in the eye. “Tony, if you can't contain your anxiety, you need to hide it better. You're freaking Steve out. I think he has enough on his plate, don't you?”

Steve turns away, throwing up a hand in exasperation. That's not what he'd meant _at all_.

Pepper knows what she's doing, anyway. Tony stops staring. Or at least, that's what Steve thinks, until he sneezes one afternoon and a display pops up just inches from his nose, featuring Tony with a wild expression. “Are you okay? Steve?”

“Mind your own business, Tony,” Steve snaps. “I'm a God-damned adult, I can handle a few nosebleeds! I sneezed, I'm fine—”

Then he tastes blood.

Tony vanishes from the camera view at a run, and within a minute, is huffing and puffing down the hallway like an Olympic sprinter, Kleenex in hand, and a medic on his heels.

Steve has had _enough._ He pushes to his feet, determined to go to his room where he can get some privacy, but he only gets halfway. The room swirls and Steve’s knees go out.

The only reason he doesn't hit his head is because Tony grabs him, his horrified expression swimming in front of Steve's face. “Steve?”

Steve's still sinking, at least until the medic gets an arm around his other side. Then, together, they shore him up, and Steve would snap at them for babying him, but his legs are weak and trembling under him.

They take him toward the elevator. Steve can hear them talking around him, but their voices seem distorted and far away. They're nearly inside when Steve's legs give out on him entirely. He hits the ground with a thump. Everything is too bright, and he can hear the muffled sound of Tony yelling.

Steve's head hurts, and his nose is still bleeding, his mouth full of the metallic tang, the front of his shirt red and shining.

Tony's arm is like a vice around his chest, and Steve can feel sharp, almost panicked breaths at his temple. The medic's fingers are at Steve's throat, and Steve hears, “—elevated heart rate.” He can feel it racing in his chest, and that can't be good; his heart rate doesn't even go up all that much when he's really pushing himself during a workout.

Being on the floor helps push back the tunneling of his vision, clears his ears.

“I got you, Steve, I got you. Hang on.”

The elevator stops, and when the doors open, Steve can hear the sound of voices—too many voices.

Natasha barking his name. Clint and Bruce both blaspheming. Other people shouting. The sound of a gurney's wheels.

There are faces everywhere, and Steve grasps at the air, wanting something—someone steady to hold onto. He's still bleeding, and he's woozy and scared. Is this it? The serum destabilizing? Will it kill him? Revert him? Which would be worse?

Someone takes his hand, and Steve lets out a shuddering breath, clutching back. They hold on even when Thor picks him up—Steve knows it's Thor because he gets a faceful of long blond hair. Thor lowers him onto the gurney, and Steve realizes that the person holding his hand is Tony. Tony catches him looking and squeezes his hand. “Relax, Cap. We'll figure this out.”

Steve nods, and then there are nurses cleaning his face and doctors peering up his nose, touching his cheeks and pressing against his nose. They're all talking, but it's like listening to Bruce and Tony talk. He catches a word every now and then, but most of it sounds like Greek to him. Part of what he catches is, “Looks like it's posterior instead of anterior.”

“What does that mean?” Tony asks tersely.

“It's more serious,” one of the doctors says. “It means it's an artery, not a vein bleeding, which means we need to work fast.”

“Then do it!” Tony demands.

One of the nurses gives him a look. “Mister Stark, if you're going to be trouble, we're going to have to ask you to leave.”

Tony's hand clenches around Steve's, his jaw setting mulishly. “No. I'm staying.”

“Then stay quiet and stay still and let us work,” he says.

Tony nods and glances at Steve. “I'm going to stay, I swear.”

Steve's throat tightens, and he nods back. He still feels shaky all over, limbs weak and trembling, and the blood going down the back of his throat is making him feel sick to his stomach. He's trying his best to mash it down, but he's afraid.

The bleeding's usually stopped by now.

~ * ~

Steve _hates_ that the doctors won't let him sit up, even between procedures. Being on his back around so many people puts him on edge in the worst way. Knowing the entire team is there is the final humiliation.

The one cold comfort is that he doesn't feel like he's going to pass out anymore.

“You don't have to stay, you know,” he says, raising his voice. He half hopes no one will answer.

“The blood loss is depriving his brain of oxygen if he thinks we're going anywhere,” Clint says, and Steve sighs.

“Why do you think we would not want to be here?” Thor says, looking crushed.

“It's not that I don't think you want to be here,” Steve protests.

“Jesus, Steve, you'd think by now you'd have figured out that we're going to see you at your worst, and you might have made peace with that.” Natasha sounds pissed, and Steve grimaces. “That's what this is about, isn't it? You don't want us to see you when you're weak.”

Steve doesn't get a chance to answer, jerking upright despite the nurse's hand on his chest. He chokes, stomach heaving, and then his lap is splattered with blood and bile.

“Oh, god,” he hears Bruce say.

One of the nurses shoves Tony out of the way and flings a tray into Steve's lap. He clutches at it as he throws up again, filling the tray with a globby red mess.

“What the _hell_ is going on?” Tony demands.

One of the nurses pats Steve's back lightly. “He's all right. We've had him lying down, and the blood is collecting in his stomach. That's upsetting it, but he'll be fine.”

Steve wipes his mouth when he stops, and seeing the blood on his hand is a little too much like seeing his ma coughing into her handkerchief. Despite the assurance that it's not something to worry about, it makes his stomach constrict.

It must show on his face because Thor moves over next to the bed and squeezes his shoulder. “We are with you, Steven.”

Steve nods and tries to smile, but he can't quite muster it.

One of the doctors returns, and the other Avengers immediately converge on them, bombarding them with questions about how Steve is, what's going on, how are they going to fix it?

The doctor must be new, because they seem flustered by the gauntlet of questions, and it takes them several minutes to eke past everyone to the bed. “Hi, Captain,” they say breathlessly. “So we're going to have another look—“

“You've been looking for a half an hour, _do_ something!” Tony bursts.

“Tony,” Steve says repressively.

The doctor glances nervously at Tony. “Can you lie back, Captain?”

Steve holds back a sigh and leans back, Thor's hand helping guide him down.

“Head back,” the doctor requests, and Steve tilts his head back into the pillow, grimacing when that leads to something else going up his nose. “Nurse, can I get suction?”

Steve tenses as the nurse sticks a thin tube up his other nostril. When she turns it on, the noise is a loud _KTTSHHH_ coming from inside his head. Blood starts flowing through the tube, and Steve tries to hold still while the doctor peers around inside his face.

After several uncomfortable minutes, the doctor says, “I'm not seeing the source of the bleeding. “Angavu, come see if you can find it.”

A woman with dark skin who Steve has seen before comes in and smiles reassuringly. “You look like you're having a lot of fun.”

“That's...not what I'm having, no,” Steve replies dryly, and she laughs.

“Let me take another look with the suction and see whether I can find this bleed.”

Steve nods and tips his head back again. “Why hasn't anyone been able to find it?” he asks.

“Nosebleeds can be difficult to pinpoint because there are lots of little folds and cavities. Right now, it's particularly difficult with you because your nasal cavities are full of blood, too.”

“One of the other docs said you needed to work fast,” Tony cuts in. “It doesn't seem like we're moving very fast here.”

“We do need to work quickly, but Captain Rogers is in good hands here. If we need to infuse blood, we can.”

“How 'bout we don't do that?”

Angavu seems unperturbed by Tony's attitude. “That's my preference, too,” she says, still peering up Steve's nose. “I'm still not finding it, though. I think we're going to see what happens with a nasal pack.”

Steve's pretty sure he knows what that entails, and that doesn't seem so bad. Then the other doctor brings back something that looks like a balloon. Angavu takes it and holds it up where he can get a good look at it.

“This is a nasal pack for posterior epistaxis. We'll thread it into your nose and then pump up the balloon to put pressure on the wound and clot the bleeding.”

“How long will that take?” Natasha asks, voice terse.

Angavu glances back at her. “The procedure itself will only take about ten minutes. However, we'll need to keep Captain Rogers here for three days for observation.”

Steve is going to protest until he lifts his head and the room spins. “Okay,” he breathes, one hand clutching at the bed. “Do it.”

“We can sedate you,” the other doctor says, and Steve huffs a laugh, the other Avengers making equally unimpressed noises.

“Sorry, I don't think we've met,” Steve replies. “What's your name?”

The doctor stares at him in confusion. “Will?”

“When did you start?” Tony asks, “Did you even read the files?”

Will blinks, staring wide-eyed between them. “Three days ago? I read them. Some of them. Okay, only a few of them, but I didn't expect—”

“Sedation doesn't really work on me,” Steve informs him.

“Oh,” Will says, pushing a hand through his hair. “Shit.”

Tony, who's rocking from foot to foot with his arms crossed and the knuckles of one hand pressed to his mouth, says, “He doesn't get sick and he's hard to hurt, but when it happens it's a nightmare.”

“Well, then you let us know when you're ready, Captain Rogers,” Angavu says. “This will be uncomfortable, but it shouldn't be painful. I'm going to explain what we're doing as we go, so you know what's going on and when it will happen. Is there anything we can get you to make you more comfortable?”

“Get it over with?”

Laughs ripple around the room, and Angavu nods. “You got it.” She scoots forward on a stool and leans over him, one of the nurses holding a light to his face. Steve catches sight of Clint at the end of the bed. Clint flips him off.

Steve can't help his smile. It's stupid, but it makes him feel better.

“All right, here we go. I'm going to thread this into your nose. It's going to come down at the back until it's starting to move into the palate region. Then we'll inflate it so that it counters your blood pressure and can hold pressure until the bleeding stops.”

“Seems simple enough,” Steve says, trying to sound more confident than he feels.

Angavu smiles. “It is. Deep breath.”

Steve breathes in and then lets it slowly back out.

“Perfect,” she murmurs, “now I'm going to start threading the pack in…”

It's a weird sensation, the plastic tube going into his face. It's covered in a slick gel that makes it go in easier. As it gets further in, it's deeply uncomfortable, full where it shouldn't be and over-sensitive because this isn't a part of his body that often gets touched.

“Okay,” Angavu says after a moment. “I'm going to start inflating the balloon now.” She uses a syringe, and that's when Steve starts to feel the balloon at the back of his nose, somewhere just above his throat. It's a little bit warm, and it feels so strange. As it fills, it starts to press on the inside of his face. Then all at once, Steve feels liquid start to trickle down the back of his throat, and he coughs, jerking upright and nearly smashing Angavu in the head. “Steve?”

Steve coughs, unable to get his breath without inhaling the liquid, and then it's in his mouth, salty as it drips back out between his lips.

“Oh!” Angavu gasps. Will presses a square of gauze to Steve's mouth, and he grabs hold of it. Fortunately, the flow has already stopped.

“What happened?” Thor demands.

“The balloon must have broken. Are you all right, Captain?”

He nods. “Just—didn't expect that.”

“I imagine not. All right, I'm sorry, let's try that again.”

Steve grimaces as she withdraws the slimy deflated bag, but it's less strange when she puts a new one in.

Then that one breaks, too.

~ * ~

They withdraw the balloon, which is even more disgusting than before. It's covered in mucus and dripping with whatever it was filled with, and it plops out of Steve's nose into a pan with an unpleasant _splat_.

Thankfully one of the nurses hands him a tissue because the slimy goop is all over his face. He really wishes the Avengers would go—somewhere else.

“Okay,” Angavu says. “We're going to go in with the scope again. I want you to tell me, from the beginning, what you've been doing, where you've been. Spare no detail.”

Steve sighs and nods. “The first time was...almost a month ago. Thor and I were sparring, and he hit me.”

“What day was this?” Natasha asks.

“The eighth day of May,” Thor says. “The day before, we had been in combat with Doom.”

“Then that's not the first time,” Natasha says, and Steve frowns.

“Yes, it was.”

“No. One of the Doombots exploded,” she says.

Tony points a finger at her. “That's right! You got caught in the blast—you were a mess. There was shrapnel and blood everywhere.”

“It wasn't that bad,” Steve says, exasperated. “Most of the cuts were small. You could barely tell I'd been injured the next day.”

“But you _did_ have a nosebleed that day,” Natasha says, and Steve can't argue with that.

“Okay,” Angavu cuts in, “keep going.”

“The next time was almost a week later. I was working the heavy bag when it happened.”

“Did you touch your face? Get hit again?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“He mighta touched his face without realizing. He gets in the zone when he's hitting the bag,” Sam interjects.

“It's possible,” Steve agrees and then grimaces. Angavu is threading the scope back into his nose, and it feels strange and foreign. He wants to pull it back out. He curls his fingers around the edge of the bed to stop himself and feels Nat's hand gently cover his. “The next time was a couple days later—movie night.”

“I almost had a heart attack,” Tony mutters.

“So you weren't doing anything particularly strenuous,” Angavu murmurs thoughtfully.

“Laughing is about as strenuous as it got.”

“The next time was at a school signing. Then it was happening almost daily. Honestly, I don't really remember what I was doing for the most part. Things only started to stand out after the bleeding started.”

“Okay,” Angavu murmurs, tone absent. Her attention is focused on the scope as she maneuvers it inside Steve's nose, and the small screen on the machine next to his bed. His teammates have all gathered around to stare at the screen, too.

“This is gross,” Sam comments and Steve shoots him a wry look.

“You weren't invited. You can all leave any time.”

“He still thinks that's gonna happen,” Clint says, shaking his head.

Then Angavu says, “Oh,” and everyone stops moving.

“What? What is it?” Tony demands.

“Will, do you see what I'm seeing?” she asks the newer doctor, ignoring Tony, and points at a spot on the monitor. Steve can't see it clearly out of the corner of his eye and based on the expressions of Thor and Natasha, he's not sure he could see whatever it is anyway.

Bruce seems to see it, though, and then Will exclaims, “Yes, I see it! Wow, good eye.”

Angavu looks down at him, and Steve meets her eye, even though his heart is thudding in his chest. “You said you were in proximity to an explosion the day before this started?”

“Yes, Doombots, what does that mean?” Tony demands. “Did Doom do this?”

Angavu looks back at the monitor. “I think I know what we're dealing with.”

“Okay.” Steve lets out a shaky breath and waits for the verdict.

She points at the monitor again, and a tiny dark spot amid all the shiny red and pink. “I think when you were in that fight, you inhaled a very tiny piece of shrapnel. I'm guessing it's a shard of plastic, which is why it wasn't visible on the x-rays or other images. When Thor hit you the next day, it pierced the membrane and caused the bleed. All of the bleeds were a result of the cuts it caused when you laughed, or sneezed, or snorted, and between that and trying to stop the bleeds, that caused it to move around. That's the good news.”

Shrapnel. That's—it's not the serum, oh God. Relief washes through Steve, strong enough to make him lightheaded. He's been spinning out the worst-case scenarios for days now and to find out that it's just shrapnel— It feels like he can breathe again.

“The good news,” Tony echoes. “Why is that the good news? What's the bad news?”

Angavu sighs. “Well, before the shrapnel moved into the back of his nose, the bleeds were unusual but non-threatening.” She points at the monitor again, and to a squiggle of pink on either side of where the blood is coming from. “The shrapnel has hit an artery in its current position. Steve's body is doing what it does best and healing around it, but it's sharp enough that it keeps undoing that healing—that's why the nosebleed won't stop this time around. And unfortunately, it won't be dislodged on its own. Not safely, anyway. We're lucky the packing was punctured by the shrapnel before it could put pressure on it—it may have forced it into the artery or sent it into his lungs. So, the bad news is that we'll need to operate.”

Steve's teammates immediately start making noises of protest.

“He can't be sedated!” Clint cries.

“He'll be awake,” Bruce says, voice quiet and brittle.

“There has to be something else that doesn't involve Steve being conscious while you _cut open his face!”_ Tony has that bright-eyed tight-mouthed look he gets when he _really_ doesn't like the options he's been given.

“There must be some alternative,” Thor agrees, brow furrowed. “He is one of the strongest men I know, but he should not have to endure something like this.”

Natasha doesn't say anything, just grips Steve's hand a little tighter.

Angavu holds up her hands. “I know. I understand this is not an ideal situation. We've been working on new formulations for the sedatives, though, and we can try that if that's okay with Steve.”

“Maybe we should talk it over—” Tony tries Before Steve can point out that his medical care is not decided by committee, especially not when he's still _coherent,_ Angavu shakes her head.

“The sooner we get into the OR, the better. I don't want to risk being wrong about it being unable to dislodge on its own, and end up with it wreaking more havoc. Steve?”

Well, this'll be fun.

Steve lies back and takes a deep breath. “Go ahead.”

~ * ~

Tony spends fifteen minutes arguing that he should be allowed in the OR.

While Steve appreciates the gesture, he doesn't need that amount of vibrating tension hovering over him during this ordeal. The medical staff is even less interested in letting Tony in while they're doing surgery. However, they do want someone strong enough to hold Steve down if it comes to that, so Thor scrubs up along with them. Steve tries not to feel bad when he catches a glimpse of Tony's wounded expression in the overhead viewing window. He's really worried, and it drives Steve a little nuts, but there's a part of him that feels warm as a result.

By the time the doctors are ready, Steve can see everyone in the observation room, including Jane and Darcy and Phil and, for a few moments, Fury.

He looks as pleased as Tony.

Steve's embarrassed, and he'd never admit it, but he's grateful too. The last time he remembers lying on his back in a room like this, there had only been two people there for him. Now there are so many.

He smiles despite himself, and Tony frowns exaggeratedly at him. He reaches over and turns on the intercom. “ _What is it?_ ”

“Nothing,” Steve replies, but he's still smiling. He probably should be nervous, but he's a lot less afraid now that he knows what the problem is.

“All right, Captain,” one of the people in a blue face mask says, “We're going to try the anesthetic.”

Steve nods, and Thor gives him a thumbs-up, only he holds it sideways, his eyes sparkling with mischief. He's doing it wrong on purpose, and it makes Steve laugh.

They put a clear plastic face mask over Steve's nose and mouth, and then someone says, “Count backward from one-hundred please.”

“One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety-seven, ninety-six, ninety-five…

“Ninety-four…

“Ninety-th'ee...”

The numbers and everything else gets swallowed up.

~ * ~

The brightness is the first thing Steve notices, even with his eyes still closed. It's blinding.

Sounds are coming from all around him, although it seems like they're coming from a long way off.

He tries to shift and finds he can't. A needle of anxiety darts through him. It's a sluggish sensation.

Steve feels like he's awake, but only just, his limbs heavy as stone.

Something is happening to his face—he can feel pressure that's rapidly becoming pain.

Finally, he gets his eyes open, and he immediately flinches back from the light. There's a hand just inches from his eyes, with a shiny flat handle clutched in the fingers.

Something shifts inside his face— _inside—_ and a wave of agony seizes him. He tries to make noise and _can't_ , his feet skidding across the table beneath him. Someone pins him down at the knees.

The noise abruptly gets louder, and Steve is dimly aware of the sound of several voices overlapping, but all he can focus on is what’s _wrong_ with his _face_ , the pain is incredible. It feels like every nerve in his face is exposed, crackling with electricity. What are they doing? What's happening? Where _is_ he?

Then someone leans over him, and, through vision blurred by tears he can't stop, Steve sees long blond hair and electric blue eyes. Thor. Steve's panic ratchets down a notch. He manages to move his fingers, still unable to speak or move much, and Thor curls his hand around them, warm and just a little rough. Steve realizes he's talking.

“...that's it, Steve. I have you. You're safe.”

Steve makes a small, humiliating noise in the back of his throat, and that's when he realizes there's something _in_ there.

Thor's expression is calm, his voice low and soothing. “There is a tube in your throat, helping you to breathe. It is likely uncomfortable, but it is essential. You are in surgery to remove a small piece of shrapnel inside your nose.”

That's right. That's right, Steve remembers. That's why his face…

His grip on Thor's hand tightens without his meaning to do it, but Thor just smiles at him and squeezes back. He looks stressed beneath the placid expression. Someone gingerly dabs at the wet trails on Steve's cheeks, and overhead, he sees the viewing window and the rest of the team. They look pale and coiled tense as springs, ready to snap.

Despite the pain, despite the fear lumped in his belly, Steve pulls himself together with his metaphorical fingernails.

He can't see, but he knows that the initial cutting, at least, is done. His throat and nose are exposed in ways they were never meant to be, and it's awful, but Thor is here, and he focuses on that, very pointedly ignoring the rest of it as much as humanly—or super-humanly—possible.

A doctor Steve recognizes but whose name he can’t remember, approaches, and Steve tenses despite himself. “We really do need to keep going,” the doctor says apologetically. “We can try and sedate you again—”

Adrenaline shoots into Steve's veins, and he clamps down on Thor's hand.

“No,” Thor says, glancing over and meeting Steve's relieved gaze. “No more sedation.”

The doctor swallows and then says slowly, “Okay, well. We're almost done anyway. If you can stay still a few minutes longer...”

Steve still feels like he only just has control of his body, so he's not sure he can do that, but he'll try.

Thor steps back a little as the doctors move in, and even though it kills him, Steve closes his eyes, fighting to keep his expression neutral. The noise as they start up again is terrible, unsettling beyond description, and the next few minutes are the longest of Steve's life.

He can feel the doctor poking around, pressure and pain in equal measures, bleeding out from the center of his face to the crown of his skull, down into his jaw. It's everywhere, excruciating, and he desperately, desperately wants to scramble out of their reach, but he knows he can't. Not with the team there watching.

Every second is like an eternity, and Steve only gets through it because he spends every one telling himself _just another minute, and it's over._

“Okay, hold very still, Captain. We’re going to pull it out now.”

A large hand settles on Steve’s shoulder.

Stupidly, Steve starts to shake. He tries to untangle his hand from Thor’s, but Thor won’t let him, holding on tighter. “Steady,” Thor murmurs.

Someone leans over Steve and he can feel their proximity, even as they block out the light.

Steve hears the faintest rattle of something tiny and hard dropping into a metal bin, then the light returns.

Thor rubs a hand down Steve’s arm, which is rippling with tremors. “They’ve done it. It won’t be long now.”

Steve’s fingers twitch in Thor’s grip. He doesn’t know how else to convey he’s heard.

The process of putting everything back, stitching and cleaning him up, is quicker than Steve expects, but certainly not painless. The lingering dulling effect of the anesthesia is wearing off. The sharp jab of the needle going in and out is nothing compared to the way it feels like everything from his forehead to his upper lip has been stuffed with white-hot barbed wire.

“You have done well, Steven,” Thor says when the doctor snips the last stitch.

Tears Steve had been unable to hold back are matting down his sideburns, and he's so ashamed he feels sick. Thor, who's probably never been so weak, saw him like this, and the others—

Some super soldier he is.

~ * ~

Steve is only partially aware of what's going on around him as the surgery wraps up, and the doctors wheel him out of the OR. His face hurts so intensely he feels blind with it. Breathing hurts and making faces hurts, and crying hurts—everything _hurts_.

Someone puts a hand on his arm and says, “We're going to give you some pain medication, Captain. It should help a little bit.”

They have a few things that, if carefully administered, can help him manage his pain. Steve waits desperately, praying with every second that passes that it will kick in soon.

He tries to focus on everything else, but he can only track for a moment before the searing agony blots it all out again.

After what feels like another eternity, the pain starts to draw back. He relaxes shakily against the bed, just now realizing how tense he'd been. He doesn't like feeling slow and foggy, but right now, anything is better than the sensation of his face feeling inside out.

“Welcome back, old man.” Natasha leans into his field of view and smiles at him, one hand cupping his jaw. “I know you probably feel like you got hit by a Mack truck, but you're okay. The surgery went as well as could be expected. Tony is verbally eviscerating the team of anesthesiologists, and the rest of us are here. Do you know where you are?”

Steve starts to nod and then stops when it sends pain sparking out in a starburst through his face.

“Blink once for yes and twice for no.”

He blinks once.

“Okay, good,” she says, voice warm and smooth as honey. “Where are you, pain-wise? Use your fingers.”

Steve curls his fingers to indicate a six. Not feeling great, but not the worst he's felt either. He starts to ask how long it's been, and the moment his throat starts to move, everything explodes with searing, level-nine agony.

“...it's all right, ride it out, Steve, you'll be okay. Are you with us again?”

Steve twitches his head in a nod because his eyelashes are clumped together with tears. That had been fucking _excruciating_. He won't do it again.

“You're probably not going to be able to talk for a little while, Steve,” Bruce says and steps into view on Steve's other side. “Everything in there is connected, and it's going to cause you a fair amount of pain.”

 _No shit,_ Steve wants to say, but he doesn't dare try.

“Do you remember what happened?”

Steve's hand judders in a gesture that means _sort of_ and, thankfully, it's understood.

“You underwent surgery to remove a piece of shrapnel caught at the back of your nose, near the top of your throat. It went well, except you woke up during surgery, which was something I hope to god none of us have to witness ever again.”

Steve vaguely recalls the sense of panic when he'd woken, and he hopes not, too.

“Your job now is to rest. Are you thirsty?”

Steve blinks once, and someone hands Nat a cup. She carefully feeds a piece of chipped ice into his mouth. If he weren't tired to his bones, Steve would be more embarrassed. He tries not to move his mouth too much, nudging the ice around with the smallest movements possible.

Exhausted, he closes his eyes even though Bruce is still talking.

~ * ~

When Steve opens his eyes again, the sun is coming up. He feels groggy, eyes sticky, and his mouth is horrible. To his relief, the pain has banked, reduced to a steady, low-level throb.

He looks around the room and discovers Tony slumped in the chair next to the bed with his head tipped back on the seatback. His mouth is hanging open a little, and he's snoring. Natasha is curled up in a chair on his other side, eyes fixed on the screen of her phone, which is casting shifting blue light across her face. Last, he spots Clint tucked back in one of the corners, sitting on a countertop. He's watching Steve.

Steve lifts his fingers in greeting, and Clint's single-minded focus eases a little. “Hey, Cap. How you feeling?” he asks, keeping his voice low.

Remembering how bad it hurt last time he tried to speak, Steve swallows carefully, testing how it feels. It sharpens the discomfort in the back of his throat briefly, but compared to how it felt before, it's not bad. “Better,” he tries. His voice sounds terrible, but it works.

“Good.” Clint tosses a small object at Tony before Steve can protest, and it hits him in the forehead.

Tony jerks awake, blinking blearily.

He stares at Steve for a moment, and then shoves himself upright, scrubbing his face. “Steve! Hey, hey, you're awake. Hallelujah, I don't want to be the boss anymore.”

“You're not,” Steve replies, and Tony winces at the sound of his voice. “Nat is.”

Clint snickers.

Tony ignores him. “How's your face?”

“Aches,” Steve admits. “'s better, though.” He's surprised when Tony puts a hand on his head and pushes his fingers through Steve's hair. It feels nice, despite how weirdly intimate it is for Tony. His palm is warm against the crown of Steve’s head.

“You hungry? Thirsty?”

“Yes,” Steve says, becoming aware of just how much so the instant the thought is placed in his head.

Tony huffs. “All right. The docs said you should have cold, soft foods. Birdbrain—”

“Already on it,” Clint says mildly, fingers flying over his phone screen.

Meanwhile, there's movement on Steve's other side, and he looks over to find Natasha has put aside her phone and gotten a cup of ice chips.

She smirks at him and holds out a spoon with a chip. “Open wide for the airplane, Stevie.”

“You're the worst _,_ ” Steve informs her, but he opens his mouth and takes the ice. It's cool and refreshing, but he wishes he could have water instead. It's just enough to make him want _more_. “How long was I out?” he asks, the shrinking chip clicking against his teeth.

Tony shrugs. “Eight hours or so.”

That explains why his face doesn't hurt as bad. It must be starting to heal.

Thor arrives then, carting a tub of Steve's favorite ice cream. “I come bearing a feast!”

Thor plops the tub down in Steve's lap and he grunts.

“You need help?” Tony asks when Steve accepts the spoon Thor offers and Steve's temper flares.

“I'm not an invalid,” he snaps.

Tony immediately draws back, his lips thinning. “Yeah, got it, never mind,” he mutters.

Natasha pinches the back of his arm, and Steve yells, “Son of a bitch!” around the spoon in his mouth, pain shooting from the back of his throat up into his forehead.

“Don't be an asshole,” she says severely.

“Then don't treat me like I'm helpless,” Steve retorts.

Natasha's hand darts out again, pinching and twisting the side of his nearest pec. He swears even louder this time, a sear of pain tearing through his throat. “You went through something traumatic, Steve, and we want to be here for you while you recover. If you could try not to be a self-centered asshole for thirty seconds, maybe you'd realize that.”

“Besides, letting your friends help you when you're down is not the same as being an invalid or being helpless.” Clint raises his eyebrows. “Unless you think you guys helping me out after I lost my hearing was that.”

“That's...not the same,” Steve mutters.

“Uh, yeah, it fucking is,” Clint retorts. “You don't get your own set of rules. You're not that special.”

Steve's mouth pulls into an almost-smile.

“Let us love you!” Clint mostly yells, overdramatic.

“Believe it or not, this isn't entirely about you, Steve,” Natasha says, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Aye,” Thor agrees. “It comforts me to know that you remain here with us and have not gone on to Valhalla.”

“You may have felt it, but you didn't have to see the way you looked on that table,” Tony says, the tense downward slash of his mouth trembling.

Before Steve can say anything in reply, the door opens again, and Doctor Angavu steps inside. “Welcome back, Captain,” she says, and then gently lobs a tiny glass jar at him. It lands with the faintest impact on the blankets over his chest, and Steve looks down, picking it up.

Inside, there's a tiny shard of needle-sharp green plastic.

Staring at it, Steve can hardly believe this tiny piece of plastic is what nearly did him in. After everything he's been through and survived.

He hadn't realized how heavily he'd started relying on his new serum-fueled health. He's gotten cocky, expecting to come out the other side of just about anything unscathed. This is the first time something so insignificant has come so close to ending everything. All because he hadn't taken something that had seemed minor more seriously. He should know that _because_ of his enhanced body, seemingly insignificant issues could be signs of more serious problems.

He looks up at Tony and, swallowing his pride, says, “Thank you.”

Tony's head wobbles and pulls back. “What? Are you talking to me?”

“If it weren't for your paranoid fussing, I probably would have kept ignoring it, and that...could have ended really badly. So thanks.”

“Oh, well.” Tony shrugs, eyes skipping nervously across the floor. “I'm happy to annoy the shit out of you in the name of keeping you alive. Kind of fond of you, you know, Rogers?”

Tony never fails to be better than Steve expects. Even after all this time, he's still letting the brash exterior fool him. He owes Tony better than that.

And, he realizes, looking down at the little piece of shrapnel again, he's still acting like that ninety-pound asthmatic with something to prove. His limits have shifted, and he's probably worse now than ever about recognizing when he's reached them.

He needs to stop. He needs to rely on his teammates to recognize not only his strength but his weaknesses.

He holds out his hand, and Tony steps forward uncertainly, fingers curling around the tiny bottle when Steve puts it in his palm, holding it there. “Keep annoying the shit out of me,” Steve tells him. “You saved my life.”

“Holy shit,” Clint stage whispers, “I think he just had an existential epiphany.”

Tony curls his hand around Steve's and squeezes, his eyes shining. “You got it, Cap.”

The impulse to prove himself strong enough, sturdy enough, worthy enough, is always going to be there, but Steve wants to do better. His team deserves that. He settles back in the bed and lifts the ice cream carton. “Someone wanna get this for me?”

Natasha smiles at him, deep and genuine and some of Steve’s residual embarrassment fades. Anything that garners that kind of approval from Natasha is worth it.

Thor pries the lid off of the carton and then Tony hoists himself up onto the bed next to Steve, bumping Steve’s elbow with his hip. “Budge over.”

Huffing, Steve does, and the carton settles between them, supported by their thighs.

Steve dips his spoon in and takes a bite, eyes closing as the cold, creamy texture instantly soothes his aching throat. He pauses on his way for the next bite to let Tony get some and says, “So, Nat, what did Clint end up getting you and Darcy for your anniversary?”

She huffs and rolls her eyes. “He forgot. We had to physically remove him from the range. We bought our own gifts.”

“Dates are hard!” Clint protests.

Steve laughs, even though he shouldn’t. That’s okay, he realizes as Natasha continues to give Clint a hard time, her eyes glittering with amusement. He knows them at their worst and they know him at his. It’s why they work. And when he inevitably slips back into old habits, they’ll be there.


End file.
